


under ice there's a world moving slow

by irishmizzy



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-04
Updated: 2010-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 09:30:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishmizzy/pseuds/irishmizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks of Dick and his bright red hair, the only spot of color in the whole damn forest, and then he makes himself stop thinking about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	under ice there's a world moving slow

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the HBO miniseries and not, you know, the grandpas. Just so we're all very, very clear. Spoilers through "Bastogne" and also for World War II, if you consider it being cold in Belgium in December a spoiler. Title and cut tag from "Antarctica" by The Weepies.

There's the crunch of snow under his boots and nothing else. Everything around him is muted, all whites and grays and browns, like someone leeched all the color out of his life. He thinks of Dick and his bright red hair, the only spot of color in the whole damn forest, and then he makes himself stop thinking about it. Focuses on the perimeter, on the Krauts, on the gaps in the line that need to be filled.

The line's quiet in the middle of the night, minimal activity, just a bunch of guys freezing their asses off, waiting for something to happen. The fog is so thick he can't see anything more than ten feet in front of him. If he didn't know any better, he'd think he was the only person out here, that everyone had packed up in the middle of the night and left. He knows better, though, and so it just puts him more on edge, makes him grip his rifle a little tighter and move a little slower and listen a little harder for something, anything.

There's footsteps at twelve o'clock. He knows it's Lipton, can hear the slight hitch in his stride that he's had ever since Carentan. It's gotten so much more noticeable now that his muscles are all stiff and knotted, cramping in the cold.

"Captain Nixon," he says, halfheartedly saluting as he approaches. He looks tired, the scar on his cheek an angry reddish purple, aggravated by the cold and wind. By the time Nixon realizes he should return the salute, they're past each other and heading in opposite directions, blending into the trees and fog, disappearing into the night.

He keeps walking until the light gray of dawn starts to creep into the sky. He stumbles into his hole, his muscles aching, and wishes he had enough whiskey to sleep through the shivering.

**

When he does sleep, he sleeps lightly -- they all do, really. Can't afford not to, not with the way the Germans are walking right through their lines like they're not even there. He tries not to think about it. He tries not to think about a lot of things these days. Nixon jostles awake the second he hears someone approaching his foxhole. The footsteps are too quiet, too careful to be anyone but Dick. That doesn't stop him from reaching for his rifle when he sits up.

"You alive in there?" Dick asks, hovering at the lip of the hole and pulling the tarp back to peer inside. Nixon glares at him before a yawn starts to split his jaw in two. "You've been asleep for a while."

"Sure doesn't feel like it."

Dick doesn't say anything. He stares at Nixon in that way, like if he looks at Nix's nose and lips and eyebrows long enough he'll be able to tell if he's lost his mind yet. He probably could, is the thing. They'd all be able to, just from looking. Nixon watches the snow stick to Dick's helmet, flexes his fingers and tries to return feeling to his hands while he waits out Dick's stare. After a minute he blinks, satisfied, and reaches out like he's going to touch Nixon's cheek but he hesitates, brushes the frozen dirt out of Nixon's hair instead.

Dick claps his hand on Nixon's head and stands up. "I have to go meet with Lieutenant Dike," he says. "He wants to talk about the way his men are sleeping three to a foxhole. It seems he doesn't approve."

Nixon shakes his head, rolls his eyes and says, "Yeah, good luck with that." Dick half-smiles at him; Nixon's smile turns into another yawn and then Dick's gone, disappearing into the the forest like he never existed in the first place.

**

Nixon takes one last swig from his flask before stowing it in his back pocket and heading towards Dick. He's sitting on a fallen log, hands tucked under his arms, staring at nothing. Nixon sits down next to him without a word, tucks his own hands into the bend of his knees and doesn't say anything. It's scary how pale Dick is, how blue his lips are, and Nixon fleetingly thinks that he'd do anything to get some color back into Dick's cheeks. They need supplies, ammo and food and blankets and a fucking aid station and a thousand other things Nixon took for granted every day before they got to this goddamn icebox. Next to him Dick shivers, his whole body shuddering. Nixon presses closer, shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip, knee-to-knee, like their combined body heat will be able to seep through all their clothes and protect them from the subzero wind chill. He knows it won't, but it's all they've got.

After a minute, Dick sags into him, transfers the weight of his body onto Nixon like he's too tired to hold himself up anymore. The edge of his helmet slips under the edge of Nixon's and digs into Nixon's ear. Eventually Dick's breathing evens out and even though Nixon knows he's not asleep, he knows it's as close as he'll let himself get out here in the open. Nixon wiggles his toes in his boots and stares at the trees while he listens to Dick breathe.

**

"Anything new?" he asks, leaning against the same tree trunk Dick's propped up against.

"Nothing." Dick squints at something only he can see. "You find something today?"

"Nah." He shoves his hands as deep into his pockets as he can. He cranes his neck to look at the starry sky and waits a beat before turning back to Dick. "It's almost Christmas."

Dick nods and keeps staring at whatever it is while Nixon stares at him. He has a cut on his chin, a bright red spot on his pale, pale skin. Nixon can't stop looking at it; Probably nicked himself shaving, he figures. He clenches his hands into fists and fights the urge to run the pad of his thumb over it.

"So much for Berlin," Nixon says with a sigh, forcing himself to look into the middle distance, to try and see what Dick sees, but all the trees look the same. Everything looks the same.

**

It's snowing again, fat white flakes that make it even harder to see anything farther than two feet away. He hasn't been able to feel his fingers since he held a cup of coffee six hours ago. The wind howls, whipping through the trees, blowing snow in every direction. He flinches. It never got this fucking cold back home, not to the point where he could feel it in his bones, where he was positive he'd never be warm again. He's at the point where he might actually kill someone for a pair of gloves right now. "Goddamn gloves," he says, out loud, to no one. He lights a cigarette and focuses on smoking instead of on how he can feel his nerves fraying one at a time.

He grabs his blanket, pulling it tighter across his body, and watches the exhaled smoke hang in the air. He's still grumbling to himself when Dick crouches at the edge of his foxhole, sending a shower of loose dirt and snow onto Nixon's arm.

"I had gloves in Jersey," Nixon says. His teeth chatter uncontrollably. Dick blinks down at him, not asleep but not awake, either. They're a company of the living dead lately. Doc's got it the worst, always staring at nothing and muttering to himself, but none of them are okay, not even Dick. Nixon doesn't know how much longer they can last before someone really loses it.

"What?"

"Nothing." He crushes his cigarette into the dirt and flicks the butt into the distance as Dick drops into his foxhole and hands him a second blanket. He shoves at Nixon's side until he moves over and then squeezes into the tiny spot between Nixon and the wall.

"Jesus, Dick," he whines, shifting to accommodate the extra body, "Do you have to take up all the space? This is my fucking foxhole, for Christ's sake."

"Well, maybe next time you should dig one that's regulation," he says. Nix can hear the smile in his voice; he's close enough to see the upturned corners of Dick's mouth that passes for a smile these days. Nixon elbows him in the ribs, trying to fit his body against Dick's for maximum warmth. Dick lets him, goes almost completely limp and lets Nixon reposition their limbs so they can both fit under the blankets. Eventually Nixon settles, his thigh pressing against Dick's, his shoulder wedged into the tiny space between the dirt wall and Dick so that their upper bodies are overlapping. If he slumps down, he can rest his head on Dick's shoulder. He fidgets, trying to find a comfortable spot on the frozen ground. Under the layers of blankets, Dick rests his hand on Nixon's knee. Nixon stops moving immediately.

"Nix," he says quietly, calmly, "get some sleep." He squeezes Nixon's knee once and leaves his hand where it is. It's heavy and solid and already Nixon's leg feels warmer. He slouches further into the dirt and pulls the blanket all the way up over his nose and lets his breath warm the air under the blanket. He falls asleep with his cheek pressed into the scratchy material of Dick's jacket, Dick's fingers splayed over his knee.

When he wakes up a few hours later, he's got one leg slung over Dick's so that their legs are all tangled together. He's got his nose buried in Dick's scarf, one arm around Dick's waist and his erection pressed into Dick's hip. Before he even opens his eyes, he knows Dick's still awake. It's in the rigidity of his body, his careful, measured breaths.

Nixon starts to apologize and inches away, trying put some space between them, but Dick covers the hand Nixon's got wrapped around his waist with his own and holds him in place. It feels like the earth falls out from underneath them when Dick tentatively arches his hips.

"Dick," he says, the air rushing out of his lungs. His rocks his hips forward and Dick's grip on his hand tightens the slightest bit.

A shell explodes somewhere too close for comfort and they both freeze as a tree gets blown apart. It's only the beginning; more shells and machine gun bursts and splintering trees follow. Nixon can feel the ground shake underneath them, buries his face in Dick's shoulder when a tree crashes to the ground not twenty feet away. One of their men shouts for a medic and just as soon as it all started, it stops. They both sit up warily and Nixon releases the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. The air he inhales tastes like gun powder. It burns in the back of his throat. He smiles shakily at Dick, opens his mouth to say something, but he's interrupted by Lieutenant Peacock, crouched fifteen feet away, asking if anyone's seen Captain Winters.

Dick pats Nixon's thigh and then uses it as leverage to stand up and climb out of the foxhole, snow and smoke and fog swirling around him, around everything. Nixon sighs and digs his flask out of his back pocket and watches Dick walk away.

**

He doesn't see Dick again until all of Easy's standing in line waiting for Domingus to ladle out whatever the hell he's managed to scrape together for dinner that night. He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet and half-listens as Muck and Malarkey bicker over cigarettes while Penkala referees. Harry's listening to them too, and he rolls his eyes when he catches Nixon's gaze.

"Busy day." Dick leans in close when he says it, so close that Nixon can feel a warm puff of air ghost against his cheek. Something deep inside him twists itself into a knot.

"Well, yeah," he says. "There was the snow and enemy fire this morning and then all the enemy fire and snow this afternoon." Dick rolls his eyes; Nixon grins at him. "Hey, Harry, what do you think we have in store for us tonight?"

"I don't know, Nix," Harry says, "Possibly some snow, maybe some enemy fire. It's hard to tell, really."

Dick laughs, just a chuckle, but that's all it takes to make Harry and Nixon laugh, too. Dick's arm brushes against Nixon's shoulder and Nixon leans into the contact. Towards the head of the line Luz says something in a deep, grumbling voice that makes Buck laugh loud enough for everyone to notice. Nixon shifts closer to Dick and watches him watch his men, laughing, smiling, leaning on each other as they eat their undercooked beans out of tin cups.

**

Dick's waiting for him when he gets back from his patrol at 0300.

"Anything?"

Nixon shakes his head. "Same as ever."

The moon is waxing and in the dim light Nixon can just make the lines on Dick's face, his chapped lips, the tension in his jaw as he tries to keep his teeth from chattering. He motions for Dick to climb into the foxhole and then follows him in, using a rock to secure the makeshift roof once they're both inside.

He tosses Dick a blanket and they sit in silence for a minute while their eyes adjust to the darkness. Nixon tosses his helmet aside and hears Dick do the same. As Dick slowly comes into focus, Nixon can see him shuddering, like an entire day in the freezing cold was finally catching up with him.

"Here," he says. He grabs Dick by the wrist; Dick gasps when Nixon's fingers slip under the cuff of his jacket and brush against his skin.

"Youre hands are cold," he says. Nixon doesn't say anything, just tugs Dick closer, fitting their bodies together so frozen dirt digs into their backs while their sides are touching all the way from their shoulders to their ankles. Nixon still has his fingers caught in Dick's sleeve; he strokes the skin there just to make Dick gasp again. He bites his lip when Dick's hand falls into his lap.

Dick shivers and Nixon presses closer, fingers still tracing random patterns on the inside of Dick's wrist. Dick swallows and slumps down, lets his head fall back against the dirt. Nixon drops his head onto Dick's shoulder and breathes in. Dick smells like sweat and smoke and earth. He shivers again and Nixon wedges his free arm around Dick's lower back and tries to pull him even closer. He only succeeds in wrapping his arm around Dick's waist. He closes his eyes when Dick tilts his head towards him, can feel the warmth of Dick's breath against his hairline. He opens his eyes and lifts his head slightly to look at Dick.

Something in the air shifts, Nixon can feel it deep inside him and knows Dick can feel it too, and when Dick looks at him whatever it is just snaps. Nixon sits up and lets go of Dick's wrist, twisting his upper body and planting both his hands on Dick's chest to hold him in place as their mouths collide. Dick's mouth is searing hot, the hottest place in all of fucking Europe, and he lets out a moan as Dick's tongue slides over his. Then they're kissing and Nixon's sliding his leg over both of Dick's so he can straddle Dick's lap, twisting his hands in Dick's lapels for leverage. Dick moves with him, pulling his gloves off and pressing his fingertips to Nixon's cheeks, hands, neck, anywhere there's a sliver of exposed skin. He moves one hand over Nixon's head, fingernails scraping at his scalp as he fists his hand in Nixon's hair, tugging hard enough to make Nixon moan into his mouth.

"We shouldn't," Dick murmurs in between gasps for breath. His lips rasp against the stubble on Nixon's jaw. But when Nixon starts to pull away, Dick's hand on the back of his head won't let him. He leans forward, presses Dick into the wall as he kisses him. Dick moans against his lips and it's followed by a sharp intake of breath when Nixon reaches down and squeezes his cock through the fabric of his pants.

He shoves at Nixon's shoulders with both his hands and for a moment Nixon panics, thinking that he's finally crossed the line and he'll be transferred to HQ or court-martialed before dawn. But Dick doesn't leave, just pushes Nixon backwards, toward the middle of the foxhole and then he's pulling Nixon back toward him again, all the way back, so that they're lying down and Dick's tongue is in his mouth again and they're pressed together and it's like he's been waiting the whole war for this.

Nixon braces his hands in the dirt and rolls his hips and can't stop from smiling when Dick's breath hitches and his hips rock up into Nixon's. Dick nips at his lips, bites down hard enough to make Nixon gasp and then he's smirking and sliding his hands up the backs of Nixon's legs. His hands settle on Nixon's hips and they find a rhythm, rolling and thrusting and it feels like he's coming undone.

He can feel him, hot and hard, even through his pants, and it's dizzying. "Dick. Oh, fuck, Dick," he mutters, and he thrusts faster. He's sure someone's going to hear them, hear the grunting and gasping and the sound of their boots scrabbling in the dirt, but all he cares about right now is right here -- the blood rushing in his ears, Dick's fingers digging into his sides, his tongue in Dick's mouth, the way Dick's erection catches against his with each roll of his hips. There's nothing else.

They move in sync, all frantic thrusts and breathless pants. Nixon drags his mouth along Dick's jaw, nips at his neck while Dick pants in his ear. And then Dick's coming, whispering "Nix" over and over like it's a prayer and his hands are on Nixon's shoulder, his hip, his thigh, everywhere. He comes right after Dick does, his nose pressed to Dick's Adam's apple as he mutters nonsense into the hollow of Dick's throat.

They lie there, catching their breath. Eventually everything goes still. Dick's hand is heavy and warm on the back of his neck, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the smooth skin under Nixon's ear. He squeezes the back of Nixon's neck once and Nixon smiles against Dick's collarbone. For the first time in days neither of them shivering.


End file.
